


In fever dreaming

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fever, Foreshadowing, Illness, Illustrated, Lord/Vassal Dynamics, M/M, Pre pre-Nirnaeth, Your OTP isn't monogamous, implied Fingon/Maedhros, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 02:25:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2092197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the world shifts beneath him, there is one stable figure for Gelmir to hold on to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In fever dreaming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cygnete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cygnete/gifts).



> 0\. This is part of an exchange with the amazing Silje, who has done an [incredible illustration](http://silmarillle.tumblr.com/post/94581885439/a-figure-was-dozing-in-the-chair-by-his-bed-long) for this story. I cannot recommend her work highly enough - she has managed to lodge herself within my brain, and draw as if our imaginations are one and the same. She is truly amazing, an inspiration, and our conversations are the highlights of my day. There will be more to come from this collaboration!  
> 1\. You can get context on Gelmir [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1915647) and [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2064696).

The room was sloping rapidly away from him, which made sense, as he was fairly certain he was at sea. That made the bed a little innocuous – shouldn’t it be a bunk? Or a hammock? What did sailors sleep in? – not to mention that the fireplace was a bit of a puzzler, but those details was the least of his worries. He clung tightly to the mattress with shaking fingers. Hopefully he could weather the worst of it.

“Will the storm be over soon?” It took him a moment to recognize the weak, cracked voice as his own.

A gentle hand smoothed the hair back from his brow. “Storm?” 

“The seas seem rough,” he said, and shook so hard his teeth rattled. 

The hand paused, pressing lightly against his cheek, and then that same warm voice asked quietly. “Is there anything we can do for the fever?” 

“We’ve done what we can, your highness,” came another voice, and he jumped, having been unaware of another presence in the room. He must be in a truly enormous ship’s cabin… 

“We’re keeping the room warm, and if he can manage to keep the tea down the herbs will start doing their work soon enough.” 

“And the wound?” The gentle touch and the warm voice seemed to be connected to the same person, and he closed his eyes, feeling inexplicably soothed as the hand continued to stroke through his hair. 

“We’ve cleaned it out as best we can and packed it with athelas. If we’d known it was infected earlier…” 

“He didn’t even tell me he was wounded.” The voice sighed. “I only noticed when he started to look pale. It is typical of him; I should have been more aware – ” 

“Naturally, a soldier would have desired above all to make sure his king got back safely,” said the other voice, reasonably. “He wouldn’t have wanted to worry you.” 

“Stupid,” said the first voice, but there was an exasperated affection there. “It was a small enough raid; I could handle myself. And he knows better, he knows how they poison their blades…” 

“There is nothing more you can do, sire. We just have to wait for the fever to break. I’m sure you can go. And we can move him to the sickroom if you – ” 

“No,” said the voice quietly. “He has stayed with me in far less comfortable conditions. I shall wait with him.” 

- 

When he awoke, he knew himself again. 

Horribly weak, but at least fairly certain the room wasn’t rocking with the motion of waves, he made a feeble movement with one hand. Valar, he was thirsty. Pushing the blankets away from his face, he got a clear glimpse of the room he was in. It was large, far too large for his own quarters down in the guard barracks, but still familiar. The fine sheets tangled around his legs, the carved wooden bedposts – he knew them, though in a far different context. 

A figure was dozing in the chair by his bed, long legs stretched out before him. His black hair was caught back in a single braid, tied off with gold. His circlet lay on the floor by his feet as if dropped it from weary fingers, too tired to care where it landed. His clothes were rumpled and rough worn; clearly he’d been wearing them for some time.

He must have felt eyes on him for he stirred and raised his head, eyes flickering into alertness. “Gelmir! You’re awake.” 

“Yes, sire,” said Gelmir, and was shocked at how frail his voice sounded. His throat was dry as a bone, and he attempted to clear it. What he wouldn’t give for water… 

“Here.” A glass was thrust before him, and he took it gratefully. It almost slipped from his grasp, before strong fingers wrapped around his own, and helped him bring the glass to his lips. Too thirsty to be embarrassed at his own frailty, Gelmir drank eagerly, draining the glass. 

“I’m glad to see you awake and lucid again,” said the king, setting the glass on the bedside table. 

Gelmir felt himself color. “I hope I wasn’t – Did I say anything – ?” 

The king laughed. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve seen me in far more embarrassing states. I’ve done my fair share of hallucinating in front of you; I suppose you thought it clever to turn the tables.” His tone was slightly chastising. “I have to say you took it rather far, though.” 

“I am sorry, my lord.” 

“Gelmir,” his voice was kind, and a little amused. “Haven’t I told you before? If you’re in my bed, you’ve more than earned the right to call me Fingon.” 

Despite everything, Gelmir flushed. “These are rather different circumstances, my lord.” 

Fingon leaned forward, smiling, and took his hand. “You think I only extend first name privileges when I’m taking my pleasure with you? I think you know me better than that.” 

“You didn’t have to stay with me,” whispered Gelmir. He was feeling tired again, and the water was churning unpleasantly in his stomach. “I don’t want to keep you from– ” 

“You’re not keeping me from anything,” said Fingon firmly. “Need I remind you that you stayed by my side as I was dying in a swamp, hallucinating little yellow warrior toads? This is the least I can do.” 

“I thank you,” said Gelmir, his eyes drifting closed. 

“Mind you,” came Fingon’s voice, through the haze, “if those toads show up again, I’m out.” 

“I don’t blame you,” said Gelmir vaguely, and he heard Fingon laugh, and felt the king press a kiss to his hand. 

- 

The fever came back that night, and Gelmir tossed and turned in the king’s great bed, swimming in and out of consciousness and a whirl of voices. 

“Why has the fever come back? I thought it broke hours ago…”

“His wound has putrefied, your highness, we will have to open and drain it.” 

“Then will the fever abate?” 

“Hopefully, but it may be too far gone.” 

“And then?” 

“And then…” the healer’s voice trailed off into a low murmur. 

“That’s not an option.” The king’s voice was loud, angry. “Whatever it takes, you will heal him.” 

“I shall do my best.” 

Pain, the room falling away, the only anchor a strong hand holding his… Gelmir fell into blackness. 

- 

When he awoke, it was once again to voices. 

“I’ve told you,” Fingon was saying, tiredly, “I am fine staying here.” 

“The healers say he is stable. Perhaps your majesty would like a fresh pair of clothes? You are needed – ” 

Fingon’s voice was impatient. “I am fine as I am. Did I not say I wasn’t to be disturbed? Surely you do not need me for every mundane–” 

“I would not have disturbed you, sire, but I thought you would want to know that your cousin has arrived.” 

There was a silence. 

“Which cousin?” asked the king quietly. 

“Lord Maglor.” 

There was the softest of sounds, like the king had let out his breath. “Show him up,” he said at last. “Makalaurë has ever been practical. He will not mind meeting me in a sickroom.”

 - 

Maglor Fëanorion was not as tall as his older brother, nor as grim, but still Gelmir shivered when he entered the room. He let his eyes fall half-closed, letting Fingon think him still asleep. He watched as Maglor and Fingon embraced, and Fingon dragged out a chair for his cousin to sit. 

“I am sorry to come at such a time,” Maglor was saying. “I did not realize you would be nursing the wounded.”

“It was unexpected.” Fingon dragged a hand across his eyes. “It was a minor raid. A band of orcs came upon me and a small scouting party, and my guard, ever-faithful, was so intent on bundling me to safety that he failed to mention one of them had opened up a gash along his side. It wasn’t until he fainted twelve hours later that I even knew he was wounded. Stubborn, pig-headed, noble fool…” 

“Sounds rather familiar,” said Maglor, and there was an amused note in his voice. “It is no surprise to me, Findekáno, that you draw noble fools willing to die for love and loyalty to your side.” 

“I don’t know if I should be offended at that or not,” said Fingon, drily, putting his feet up on the edge of the bed, and Maglor laughed.

“Take it as a compliment, cousin.” 

Gelmir watched through half-shuttered eyes, trying to dredge up the familiar hatred for the sons of Fëanor. It was easy, when faced with Maedhros, to hate him. That tall, imposing figure, with his blood-red hair and scarred, once-handsome face…death rode in every line of the eldest son of Fëanor, and it was easy to loathe him as a murderer. Easier still it was to loathe him for the bright joy he inspired in Fingon, and for how Gelmir would go days without seeing his king when the lord of Himring was visiting… He shifted restlessly under the bedclothes, and Fingon, noticing, leaned forward, concern creasing his brow. He laid the back of his hand to Gelmir’s cheek, and murmured, “Gelmir? Can you hear me?” 

Gelmir squeezed his eyes shut and turned away, feigning sleep. After a moment, he heard Fingon lean back with a sigh. 

“You do good by your men,” said Maglor gently, and Gelmir tried to stir up hatred against that low, musical voice. For all the gentleness in that fair face, Maglor was still a kinslayer, a son of Fëanor, one of the Dispossessed. They even said it was he who was the first to light the torches at Losgar, sending up in flames the last hope of Fingolfin’s people, dooming them to death on the Grinding Ice… The image of that red horizon swam before his eyes, and he trembled, furious and afraid, before the memory of flames. 

“Gelmir?” Fingon asked again, but Gelmir rolled over, burrowing into the pillows. 

“We should let him rest, should we not?” asked Maglor. “Our talking surely keeps him awake.” 

Fingon hesitated. “I do not wish to leave him alone,” he began, and Maglor murmured understandingly, “Of course.” 

“Why is it I find you here at all, cousin?” asked Fingon, in a low voice. “It is not like you to come without notice, and without – ”

“Maitimo?” There was knowing smile in Maglor’s voice. “It is because of him that I came.” 

“Why? Is he – Has something – ” There was a sudden sharpness in Fingon’s voice, an urgency tempered with fear. 

“No, no, nothing like that.” Gelmir cracked an eye and saw Maglor lean forward, laying a calming hand on Fingon’s knee. “He is in Himring, safe and well. Pityo is with him.” 

“So what – ” 

“It is this mad idea of his.” Maglor shifted restlessly in his chair. 

“Mad idea? Maitimo?” Fingon smiled, but there was tension there. “Which mad idea would this be?” 

“You shall hear it in full from him. He plans to journey to Hithlum himself, to lay it before you. But in short – he plans to ride again against Angband, Finno.” 

There was a long pause, and then Fingon leaned forward in his chair, his eyes intent on Maglor’s face. “Explain what you mean by that.” 

“I do not mean alone, of course – ” 

“Of course,” said Fingon, with dark humor. “What fool would do that?” 

Maglor winced. “I did not mean – ”

“Of course you didn’t. Go on.” 

“He has been gathering soldiers to him – Elves, yes, but Men too, from the East, and he plans to make overtures to Doriath and Nargothrond – and to you. To gather the full might of Beleriand in union and use to it crush the might of Angband in a vice.” 

There was a weighty silence. 

“I do not know that it is such a mad idea after all,” said Fingon, at last. “I have long since tired of futile sieges and skirmishes, forever feeling like I am being picked apart a bit at a time by Morgoth’s crows. To make an end, once and for all…” 

Maglor made a noise of dissent. “But Findekáno, do you not see? _We do not have the soldiers for it_.” 

“Come, Makalaurë, the collective armies of this kingdom number – ” 

“The collective armies, yes. And if it were just for you,” Maglor broke off. “Were it just for you, they would come. But for Nelyo – ” 

“He has earned their respect, many times over,” said Fingon. “How could any doubt his sincerity or his strength?” 

“Finno,” said Maglor, tired but fond, “it is our house that they doubt. Our brothers have not exactly been weaving diplomatic ties in the far reaches of Middle-earth. And even if the rumors I hear from Nargothrond aren’t true, even if my brothers had done great and noble deeds instead of what I fear, we are the Dispossessed. We shall ever be hated in this land.” 

Fingon ground his teeth. “The blood on your hands is shared by others,” he said. “And I can remind them that you stand not alone in –” 

“But we do,” said Maglor, wearily. “We stand ever alone, bound by our Oath and the deeds of our hands. And we shall never inspire the loyalty we need for such a battle. We shall never rally the numbers to us.” 

“Why do you tell me this?” asked Fingon. “Why do you not tell Maitimo of your doubts?” 

“I have tried,” said Maglor, resting his head in one hand. “But I have never been very good at changing his mind. But you, Finno – ” 

“You think I will try to dissuade him?” 

“I am not gifted with Foresight,” said Maglor. “And yet I have had dreadful premonitions, ever since he came to me with this plan. Terrible dreams, and a vision…” he broke off, shuddering. “But no matter my fears, no matter my doubts, I will follow him unto the end. It has ever been so.” 

“You think it is not the same for me?” Fingon asked quietly. “Have I not always followed where he led? Or at least,” he laughed, humorlessly, “I have always tried.” 

Maglor made a pained sound and reached for Fingon’s hand. “You are our king,” he whispered. “If you disagreed…if you told him…” 

“I do not know that I do disagree,” said Fingon. “In truth, the words you speak lighten my heart. It has chafed at me, this inaction, these feeble bites we take of the enemy, while all the while he lurks in his fastness. Why should we not make one great, final end to it?” His eyes lit as he spoke, and his face was alive with possibility. 

“Because I know not whose end it will be,” said Maglor, in frustration. “And I fear it shall be ours.” 

“That is always the risk, is it not?” said Fingon, and there was something youthful and reckless to him now. “It is only a great deed if it holds the possibility of great failure.” 

Maglor gave a little moan and dropped his head into his hands. “I don’t know what I expected,” he said, muffled. “Oh my brave, valiant cousin.” 

Fingon laughed and laid a hand on Maglor’s shoulder. “I know you are resisting adding the word ‘stupid’ to that list,” he said. “And I appreciate your restraint. Come, don’t look so worried. I shall think on it. And when Maitimo comes himself, I shall think on it more, and talk it over with him.” 

“I’m sure you will,” mumbled Maglor, into his hands, and Fingon nudged him with his boot. 

“Was that an attempt at innuendo? How I’ve missed you, Makalaurë.” 

Maglor sighed, and lifted his face. “And I you, Findekáno,” he said resignedly. “Eru, I am too tired for this.” 

“There is a soft bed awaiting you in the guest chambers,” said Fingon. “I trust you remember where - ?”

“Aye,” said Maglor, and stood. “Thank you.” 

“I shall see you in the morning,” said Fingon, standing too. “We can break our fast together, and I shall ride with you a ways when you decide to return. Would that I could go all the way to Himring, but – ” he broke off, and Maglor smiled understandingly. 

“He shall be here soon enough,” he said gently, and pulled Fingon into a light embrace. “Good night, cousin.” 

Fingon hugged him back, hard, briefly burying his face in Maglor’s dark curls. “I am glad you came,” he said, pulling away at last. “We shall talk more tomorrow.” 

“Good night,” said Maglor, making his way to the door, “and my best wishes for your wounded soldier,” he added over his shoulder, before the door slid closed behind him. 

Fingon let out a great breath, and stood silent a while. In the bed, Gelmir held very still, knowing Fingon still thought him asleep. 

At last, Fingon shook himself, rolling out his shoulders restlessly, and moved to the wall to extinguish the lamps. Leaving but one candle burning by the side of the bed, he shrugged out of his clothes, tossing them carelessly over the back of a chair, and made his way to the bed. Gelmir rolled over to look up at him as the king slid into bed next to him. 

“Awake, eh?” Fingon murmured, slipping alongside Gelmir. He reached out a hand and tucked a strand of hair behind Gelmir’s ear. “You look better, at least.”

“Yes,” said Gelmir, and shifted closer. Fingon gave a hum of pleasure and wrapped his arms around Gelmir, pulling him against his chest, careful of the bandages on his side. 

“I am glad you are on the mend,” he said, into Gelmir’s hair. “I was worried for you.”

“I am fine,” whispered Gelmir, pressing his mouth to Fingon’s shoulder. “You worry too much, sire.” 

Fingon laughed quietly and kissed him. “It is rare indeed to hear someone say such words to me. I shall take it into advisement.” 

They lay in stillness a while, Gelmir listening to the thump of Fingon’s heart under his ear, Fingon’s fingers tracing absent patterns onto his back. 

“What Lord Maglor spoke of,” Gelmir said at last, unable to stop himself. “Was it – ” 

But Fingon silenced him with another kiss. “It was nothing,” he said, tucking his chin over Gelmir’s head. “Put it from your mind.” 

“But – ” 

“You heard nothing,” said Fingon, “A fever dream, nothing more.” And he leaned over and blew out the candle.


End file.
